


Clueless

by XsammicakesX



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:28:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XsammicakesX/pseuds/XsammicakesX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clueless.  That's what you are like after someone close to you dies.  It leaves you barren and dull.  But when their killer is after you, you either sharpen up, or you die.  Honestly, its that simple.  Live or die, it's your choice.  In New York, the strong live, and the weak die.  So tell me, Hawke, you're alone in the city and someone is targeting you.  Are you strong enough to survive, or are you weak enough to die?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clueless

The night it all happened seemed normal. I was at the studio, staring at a blank canvas that couldn’t seem to work with any ideas that I could have. Every time I hesitantly brought a brush or a pencil near it, my hand would just lower. It seemed daunting, my final project. We could do whatever we wished, in whatever style, in whatever medium, as long as the subject was close to us…important to us. Every time I thought I had something, I would put my hand next to the canvas, and then lower it again.

What was really important to me? My family, my friends? Were they what was important to me? I had no clue, really. What a simple question it was, and yet I couldn’t find an answer to it. I was confused as to what should be important to me. I groaned in frustration. What kind of project was this any way? How was the teacher supposed to grade this project anyways? A lot of things were important to me, so how am I supposed to pick just one?

Merrill probably was having a breeze with her final project. A paper on some sort of restoration, or a thesis, or something. She may have some pretty serious verbal issues sometimes, but on paper she was a goddess in the form of words. I sighed in dejection, and sat down on the floor in a defeated manner.

I decided it might be time to go home, so I packed up all my stuff, turned off the light in the studio, and closed the door behind me. After I locked it, I turned around to head to my small apartment, and I bumped into someone. He was stout, and pale; grumpy, with an angry cast to his brows. He sneered at me, looked me up and down, and then moved along. Strange, but not all that unusual in New York.

I checked my pockets to make sure I still had everything, just to be safe. Everything was in order, so I moved on, forgetting about the incident almost instantaneously. I continued walking home when I noticed that my phone was buzzing. I picked it up and absentmindedly checked to see who it was. I chuckled when I noticed it was my mother. She loved to check in on me, and since it was so close to my birthday, I had no doubts that she was calling to tell me that she and Bethany and Carver were stuffed inside of my tiny apartment waiting for me to get home.

Bethany and Carver were still in high school, and lived a few states away with mom, but they always made it up here for my birthday. It was incredibly sweet of them, and I adored that they always did this for me. I missed them terribly during the school year, and so this was a welcome disruption of my normal life.

“Hello,” I said as I answered the call.

Silence met me.

“Hello?” I asked, “Is anyone there?”

A sharp gasp came from the other end of the line.

“Mom?”

“Stay away from us,” I heard my mother shout. Her voice was far away, like she was a few feet from the phone.

“Mom is everything all right?” Panic laced my voice, and my heart started to thud in my chest. Was there someone there? Why was she calling me? Why didn’t she call the police?

“Now I’ll ask you one last time. Where is she?”

Who was that? I froze, listening. It was like that was suddenly all I was able to do.

Distant crashing could be heard, and then noise filled my ear. Someone was grabbing the microphone.

“Don’t come home, it’s not safe.”

“Mom! What’s wrong?”

“I love you, never forget that.”

And then the line went dead. A sweet sort of white noise filtered in through the phone. She had hung up on me. Should I call her back? No, that was a stupid thought, not one worth my time. I removed the phone from my ear and looked down at it. My hands were shaking. I could barely keep my hold on it.

I stared at my phone intently. Like it would give me all the answers I needed. Shakily I opened the screen. I called 911. It was the only thing I could think to do.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the nasally tone of the operator announced.

“Someone has broken into my home and is holding my family against their will.”

There was a brief moment of silence.

“I’ll connect you to the police immediately.”

The phone rang again, as the line was switched. It seemed like it was taking forever, but in reality it couldn’t have taken much longer than ten seconds. But ten seconds was a lot. It was taking too much time. My family is in danger.

“Hello, police station, how may I help you?”

I repeated the information I had said to the 911 operator.

“Please tell me the address. I’ll send a car there right away, ma’am.”

I spoke the address carefully, softly, because if I was too loud, too upfront, I would break down.

“Please, stay on the line and don’t go home, miss. It might not be safe for you.”

I only distantly heard that voice, and I filed it away carefully, not really listening, but still processing. Not go home…I had to go home. My family was in my home. My family is in danger. The thoughts kept repeating in my head, growing louder and louder and louder still. Distantly I was aware that the police secretary was trying to speak to me. I had to think rationally. It wasn’t safe to go home, but maybe I could be near my home…be there for when the police arrive.

I ran to my apartment, like I never had before. Adrenaline was pumping through my blood, and I pushed my body past its limits. I practically hurtled over people in my rush to get home. I was getting closer, and I could hear sirens in the distance. I was suddenly there, at my house. Police cars had littered the outside of the apartment complex, and people were in the street, crowding around. I pushed past them, and ran to my apartment. Police were outside my door. I say door loosely, however, as the door hung on my only one hitch. It was more of a hole with a piece of wood shoddily closing the opening.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying to me, couldn’t even process it, all I could think about was my family inside. I pushed my way through the policemen and stopped short. There on the floor was my family. Red was seeping out of them. With the poor lighting it almost seemed black to me. It oozed around them, viscous and unrelenting. Their eyes were still open, and even though their faces had relaxed with death, I could tell they were terrified. Something they don’t tell you about murders and dead bodies in T.V. shows and movies is that when you die, your bowels release. There’s no more muscle activity to keep it closed. So my apartment stunk like carnage and urine and feces, and I fell to my knees.

I put my head in my hands and just sat there. I couldn’t cry. The tears wouldn’t come to me. I sat there in a daze, thinking abstractly that I must be in shock. My hands and body were violently shaking, from fear or excess adrenaline I couldn’t tell. I could tell people were trying to move me, to usher me away, but I was rooted to the spot. Until I saw the knife only a few feet away from me. Slick, covered in that thick clotting blood. There was blood all over it. It was my favorite kitchen knife.

I felt like I was going to be sick.

I wasn’t rooted to the ground anymore, though. So I stood up, and I whirled around and ran right back out of my apartment. I stood there in the hallway for a minute before I sunk to the ground, and curled into a little ball against the wall. After a time it hit me that someone was trying to talk to me. I looked up, and there was a police officer, a kindly man with a protruding belly.

“Are you the owner of the apartment, Miss?” he asked in a kind and gentle voice.

“Yes.” The word came out as a whisper, a dead echo with no inflection.

“Are you the one who called in the emergency, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what exactly happened here?”

“Yes.”

I was bracing myself. I didn’t know how this was going to work. I felt empty on the inside. Hollow, like a shell of a person. I opened my mouth, and closed it, probably looking like a fish in the process.

“I was walking home from the studio. My mom called. There was a man. Someone. I think he was looking for me. My mom…she said that she loved me. Then she hung up the phone. Then I called 911.” I sounded like I was reciting something. The words were empty, missing emotion. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t real. Nothing was real anymore.

“Can you tell me anything specific? Possibly about the man?” There was that kindly old man voice again. You could tell he was used to this sort of thing. That made it worse actually.

“He said, ‘Where is she?’ I assume he was talking about me, since he was in my apartment.”

He nodded his head, and pierced me with a sympathetic glance. I couldn’t look at that sort of pity right now. The hollowness was starting to fade, and deep down, dark coils of rage were starting to bloom. It simmered down within me, like magma, its presence unnoticed till it covered the earth and burned everything in its path. That was how I was starting to feel. The pressure was building up, dark whisperings of an emotion so malignant I had no name for it, were bubbling deep down. Almost as if he sense the subtle change in me, the police officer backed away slightly.

“Ma’am, we might have to talk you in for questioning later. Is that alright?”

“Yes.” The word wasn’t empty now. There was a twisted edge to it, like the blade of a scythe. It was something though. I was feeling something.

“Now I have to take you out to the ambulance to make sure you’re okay. Going into shock is a terrible thing for the body, you know.”

“Sure.” Another word, laced with the hazy tint of anger.

I got up stiffly, and he escorted me to the ambulance. There they put a blanket on me, and checked my vital signs.

All I could think about was: Where would I sleep tonight? Would anyone take me in? Merrill, perhaps. She was a good dependable person. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind helping me out a little bit. But…my phone is in my bag. Which is still inside. Should I just ask someone for it? Maybe that police officer will get it for me.

My mind was like a machine, all gears and springs, efficiently working on the task ahead of me, not deviating at all. Get phone, call Merrill. Get phone, call Merrill. It repeated like a mantra inside of my head. I can do this. I can make it.

“Can you get my bag for me, sir? I think it might still me in my apartment.”

The portly man nodded his head, and went to go retrieve my things. I waited for a few moments, and then he was back. I almost didn’t register that time was moving. I was too busy thinking about what I would do next. But time was moving, even if it seemed to not have. Time is moving, so I need to move. I can’t be stuck here.

Got the phone, now call Merrill.

So I did. I called Merrill up, and she answered on about the sixth ring, and I asked her to calmly pick me up. She agreed, and when she came to get me, she eyed the scene but said nothing. We went back to her place, and the last thing I remember doing was hitting the mattress like a sack of rocks. Then there was nothing.

Sweet, beautiful nothingness.


End file.
